


Victim to the Greatest Predator Man Has Ever Known

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [32]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Play, Bottom Sam, Coming Untouched, Domestic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, POV Sam Winchester, Porn With Plot, Post-Series, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Smut, Top Dean, shark week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2185785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shark Week sucks for Sam. </p>
<p>Every year chaos happens, and every year, Sam means to take a convenient vacation out of town. However, every year Sam is the schmuck that stays, despite knowing better. All he wants is the usual peace and quiet of their home in the evenings. </p>
<p>This year's grand finale of Shark Week is no exception to the chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victim to the Greatest Predator Man Has Ever Known

It happens after sex.

Freckled fingers drum on the curve of Sam’s ass. Quietly, the lips smashed into the back of his neck murmur to match the fingers. “Dun dun.” No. “Dun dun.”

“Dean.”

“Dun dun dun dundundun duuuuuunnnn duun duuuunnnn… Ahhhh!” The mouth against Sam’s neck opens; viciously annoying teeth bite down over the hickey those same teeth left not half an hour ago. “Grrrrrr!” A bloodthirsty predator, Dean rips into the muscles of Sam’s neck. Dean is the top of the food chain and Sam has fallen victim to his lethal bite.

The struggle… is nonexistent.

Sam refuses to move. Dean remains chomped down, but he tugs a little, snorting as he does. Unlatching, he whines, “C’mon, play along, asshole.”

Their bed is a testament to exactly how Sam—and his asshole—have played along for the past forty-five minutes. He points this out to Dean and tugs the sheets over himself, curling up. All he wants to do is sleep and rest. Rudely, about an hour ago, he was woken up by someone else’s desire for sex. Now that Sam has quite kindly given up almost an hour of sleep, he would like to continue with his Sunday morning plans—doing absolutely nothing.

The dramatic sigh and shove to the shoulder are given in response to Sam; that's been the standard response since they were kids, whenever Sam stood up to his older brother and told him whatever idea he was cooking up was fucking stupid. Of course, Dean, who is now a man in his fifties, cannot let this go. Grumbling and with his arms folded over his chest, he adds, “You’re a fucking wet blanket, Sam.”

“And you’re a giant child.”

“I’m offering you a chance to be the victim of the greatest predator man has ever known.”

“Oh, gee, thanks.”

“It’s an honor.” Dean rolls over, moving to get out of bed, reaching for his cane. “Shit, it’s almost nine.”

“Yeah, I _know_.” The plan had been to sleep in until around ten, and then maybe to treat Dean to breakfast at the Cuban café on 18 th that just started serving brunch. After this morning, however, Sam is no longer willing to be generous. His generosity has gotten him a sore ass and a spotted neck.

The bed creaks as Dean hefts himself off of it. Immediately, Sam moves into Dean’s vacant spot, even though his side of the mattress is on a softer setting. The good thing about this fiasco is that he’ll get the bed all to himself. Pleased with this outcome, Sam rolls around, turning over from his side onto his stomach, glad to rest his hips. He listens to the familiar sounds of Dean rummaging through the hamper, searching for his favorite pair of pajama pants that he meant to wash three days ago.

Rethinking the reason why his ass is sore, Sam smiles into his pillow. As much as he wants to complain about being woken up for sex, this morning was particularly fun. Sam was treated to a blow job, a massage, and a slow fuck. Dean kept their mouths pressed together for most of it. It was intense and close in a way Sam likes to be reminded of from time to time. His toes curl thinking about it. If it suits him in a little while, he might just have a personal reenactment.

Comfortable and cool—god bless air conditioning—Sam switches out the pillows and plasters his head against Dean’s and breathes in deep. Dean smells good. There’s no other way to describe it.

But no one can say that Dean has manners.

_Thwack_! Dean’s cane strikes Sam right across the ass. “I’ll be watching zombie sharks if you need me.” A second later, Dean sneers from the doorway, “…baby.”

Baby cusses until he’s crimson.

 

Shark Week is a habit—a terrible, awful habit.

For seven long evenings, Dean does nothing but sit around in his boxers, scratch himself, and eat Swedish fish, mimicking whatever gruesome scene is on the screen at the moment. On epic nights, he’ll invite a few of the guys from the shop who are also devoted fans, and their living room becomes something like an old lady church potluck gone horribly wrong. Dean will greet all of his guests at the door, give them a half hug, half pat on the back, and lead them into the living room to show off his brand new television.

Of course, it’s not _his_ television, it’s _their_ television. But the guys don’t know that. They also don’t know that Dean does the cooking, most of the cleaning, and he turns into a monster if Sam doesn't use a fucking coaster on the coffee table.

Three nights this week have been guys’ night-in. Friday’s event was catered by Luis’ wife, who made two trays of enchiladas—one of carne asada and the other of carnitas. Sam appreciated the food, but he did not exactly appreciate three hours’ worth of men screaming and hollering at the television when a shark chomped on something that bled. Nor did he appreciate the clean up afterwards, which he was left to do by himself because Dean ate too many enchiladas and shut himself up in the bathroom for an hour.

Shark Week sucks for Sam. Every year this happens and every year, Sam means to take a convenient vacation out of town. However, every year Sam is the schmuck that stays, despite knowing better. At this point, all he wants is the usual peace and quiet of their home in the evenings.

Tonight at around seven, the guys are coming over once more for the grand finale. Dean has been obsessing about what to serve since Wednesday. Originally, he went with tostadas, but decided that they are too similar to enchiladas and he wouldn't want to make it seem like he was copying Esperanza or to insult Luis. So he changed the menu to carne al jugo, but an hour later declared that it was too formal and not easily eaten around the television. 

Dinner for tonight was last night's main topic of conversation and argument. Sam centers himself in the present, breathing in the scents of laundry detergent, come, and sleep.

When Sam eventually emerges from their room, he is naked and bundled up in one of the blankets. His first stop is his bathroom across the hall. The main goal is to be as lazy as possible today; he pees while standing over the toilet, unwilling to let go of his blanket. Finished, he washes his hands, brushes his teeth, and looks at himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes are fading. July and early August saw back to back cases that had the entire office scrambling to prepare for. Juana has lessened his schedule for the rest of the month and has benevolently given him Fridays off from now until October, which Sam is grateful for. With Dean only working twenty hours a week—usually over three or four days—having Fridays off is an extra day to spend time together. If Sam can survive Shark Week, it’ll be nice to have that time off. At this point, on the final day, he’s not one hundred percent sure he can make it.

Trudging into the living room, Sam is treated to a view of Dean spread out on the long couch, completely naked, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his middle. Sam hopes it’s the reduced sodium popcorn.

“I made you coffee,” Dean calls out. “Not that you deserve it.”

Trudging over to the kitchen proves that coffee has indeed been made. It’s still warm too, even though it’s nearly eleven. Over a cup, Sam ponders lunch. He could make sandwiches, but he could also order out for Thai food. A peek in the fridge reveals a bowl filled with dough, sealed with plastic wrap. Alongside that bowl is another, but its contents are something that look like cooked ground beef. Hurried footsteps can be heard from the living room to the kitchen.

“Hey, hey, hey,” is snapped at Sam at the same time as his ankles are tapped with the cane. “Outta there. Go on, shoo.”

Unamused, Sam keeps the fridge open. “I’m hungry. What is that?”

“None of your damn fucking business.” Dean pushes at the door. Sam smiles and pushes back. “Jesus… get out of there and I’ll make you something.”

Shaking his head, Sam replies, “Nope. I’ll take my chances.”

“Sam.”

“Hmm, what to eat.”

“Sam.”

“Huh, this looks good.”

An arm appears around Sam’s waist, ready to drag him from the fridge. Sam is ready to turn himself into dead weight. It’s his favorite of all things to do to Dean when he’s being bossy. This is a trick he has perfected and that Dean falls for every single time since Sam was six years old. This doesn’t make Sam immature; it makes him capable of knowing how to get his way with his older brother. And that’s the point of any little sibling’s existence—learning how to survive.

The arm drops when Dean’s phone goes off from its place on the counter top. Like a mom waiting for a phone call from the PTA, Dean rushes over, answers, and completely ignores whatever Sam does after that. It's not as fun to poke at whatever is in the fridge if Dean isn't watching, so Sam sighs and shuts the door, resigning to ordering out.

After tonight, their evenings will go back to normal and Sam will no longer have to hear about how sharks can turn into zombies or how in a fight of shark versus elephant, the shark would win. Sam has learned to never put up a counter-argument, or to mention the ridiculousness of a shark ever coming in contact with an elephant.

By twelve thirty, the food arrives and Sam hunkers down with it in the living room.

"Did you get me an egg roll?" Dean asks, plopping next to Sam on the short couch.

Sam huddles over his food protectively. "What? No. This is mine. I ordered it for me."

To think that Sam would have the nerve to order food without thinking about Dean's wants and needs first--how fucking dare he. With a labored sigh, Sam forks over a carton of fried rice, before the lectures and anecdotes can start. Given the chance, Dean will never fail to bring up how he always gave up his portion of Lucky Charms for Sam when they were kids, even though all Sam ate was the marshmallows. Situated comfortably in the couch, Dean eats happily, turning up the volume on a documentary that's starting. It's a program that looks like it has something to do with actual marine biologists, instead of hired actors. Science may actually be involved in this documentary.

A marine biologist on screen introduces a specific shark he has named Nicole. Every year, Nicole returns to the Galapagos Islands, identifiable by her unique fin. With a tracking device attached to her, the biologist hopes to figure out where she goes when she's not at the Galapagos. He talks about Nicole with the same affection anyone would speak about their pet.

There's not much gore or bloody action in this documentary, so Sam wonders why it grabs Dean's attention... until Nicole is shown devouring a sea lion. As if the shark can hear him, Dean cheers her on, clapping a few times before settling back into his place in the couch. He muscles the last crab rangoon out of its container and bites into it with a loud chomp. When Sam snorts, he shoves the entire thing into his mouth and smiles, cheeks bulging.

"Gross," Sam huffs, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders. He looks over to Dean to lecture him about table manners despite there not being an actual table, but it's too late. Dean opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, showing off the mangled remnants of crab rangoon. Disgusted, Sam makes a face and shoves Dean with his shoulder, denouncing his association with Dean, banishing him to the couch for the rest of forever. None of what Sam says gets through; Dean is far too pleased with himself, cackling as he gulps down the rangoon and washes it down with a swig of Sam's beer.

Once all the food has been devoured, Dean settles back into watching the program, stretching out. Sam does the opposite--he curls up and rests his eyes for a minute. Little by little, he leans to the left, encroaching on Dean's side of the couch. When no rebuff is attempted, Sam relaxes.

The least Dean can do is be his pillow.

A minute turns into half an hour. Lulled by the sounds of the ocean from the television, the warmth from his blankets and Dean, Sam falls asleep. It's the kind of sleep that's dreamless and deep.

Naps are not as strange as they were before, but Sam manages just fine.

He wakes up with his head on Dean's chest, Dean's right arm slung over his shoulder. Fingers trace circles into his own chest. Sam yawns and noses the dark gray shirt Dean is wearing. Two taps are given to Sam's collarbone--go back to sleep. This is good advice. Rolling over so that he's facing Dean and his back is to the television, Sam settles in. Of the two couches, this is the best one to nap on. Sleep is easily achieved once more, this time to the rise and fall of the firm chest underneath him.

This is the kind of peace he's wanted all week.

And probably for his entire life.

Nothing in the living room moves on its own accord. Nothing shakes or vibrates or lifts up into the air. A slim stripe of drool appears on Dean's shirt within ten minutes. Typical Sunday afternoon noises can be heard--the hum of the air conditioning, the coffee maker turning on automatically because of its three o'clock setting, and the quiet rumble of cars passing by on their street.

What wakes Sam up a second time is much more worrying than his arm falling asleep.

Snorting awake, anxiety spiking, Sam blurts out, "Dean?" He fumbles around on the couch for two seconds before he's able to sit up, blinking away the sleep in his eyes and shoving hair out of his face.

"What," Dean snaps, folding his arms over his chest now that Sam has peeled them apart.

One, two, three blinks and Sam scrutinizes Dean's face. He narrows his eyes and conducts a full analysis before he gasps in shock at his findings.

"You were crying."

"Fuck off."

"You were!"

"The fuck I was! I just... Your hair got in my eye, you fucking hippie."

There are two options here. Sam can be a complete asshole and give Dean what he deserves after making fun of him for wanting to go to Navy Pier two weeks ago, or he can be a jerk and stop at just a little more ribbing. It's a tough decision, but Sam is qualified to make it.

Wiping away the drool on his chin, Sam yawns.

"My hair was nowhere near your face."

"..."

After a glance to the screen, Sam yawns one more time, this time, extending his left arm and looping it over Dean's shoulders. The movement is met with resistance at first, but Dean doesn't knock him off so it's counted as a small victory in a larger battle. Quietly, Sam comments, "She didn't come back, did she?"

"No."

There's more said through Dean's expression than anyone else could possibly read. But Sam is qualified for this job, too. The crinkles at the edges of green eyes are deeper now than they've ever been. But that scar on his cheek doesn't stand out as much as it did a year ago. Gray has been a gradual process, but it's there, especially on the sides, just like someone else Sam used to know.

Sometimes, he'll look over at Dean and wonder if he knows how much he looks like John.

At their age, that's not a bad thing.

Their father was a handsome man. Sam isn't afraid to admit that, even if it's only to himself. John is no longer a ghost or a burden. He's a memory and a connection to a past that seems so distant and different from what they have in the present. Of course, it's all complicated between the three of them. But tawny spikes are slightly wavy from the humidity outside despite the air conditioning, curling in a tempting way.

Commercials are running on the screen. Mentions are made of the grand finale to Shark Week tonight. Three hours are all they have until the guys begin to arrive. Sam is already thinking of taking tomorrow off; Dean requested Monday off to rest from today's excitement.

"He waited for her," Sam murmurs, resting his chin on Dean's shoulder. "Never gave up on her."

Green eyes close for a moment. A tense nod is given. "Yeah."

"Didn't he say migration patterns might be changing to avoid fishing waters and hurricanes?"

"Uh huh."

"So she could still be out there."

"I guess."

"Just in a different place."

Finally, Dean looks over. Their noses are two inches apart. At first, Dean's mouth tightens, lips pursing and a frown forming. It all changes when Sam closes the gap between them and presses their lips together. Dean inhales sharply, closing his eyes, grabbing onto the blankets around Sam's shoulders. Sam steadies his hands on Dean's chest, pulling them apart for a second before stealing another kiss. Easy. This is easy. It's been easy since the first time. There wasn't any awkwardness at all, even as they grew up and grew apart. Maybe it's easier now.

No one rushes them.

Nothing lingers at their door.

Lips and tongues take their time. Languid, unhurried kisses are given, taken, and relished. Dean's tongue curves over the outline of Sam's mouth, tasting, marking, and memorizing as has been done countless times before. Pleased, Sam indulges Dean; he sighs and widens his mouth, shuddering when Dean delves deeper. One freckled hand cups Sam's cheek, thumb running over the angle there. The second hand is fortuitous as it solves the riddle of the folds in the blanket.

Dean wraps his hand around Sam's cock. Sam sighs into Dean.

This is all that happens as the world turns. Here and now. Now and here. Seductive, suggestive flickers of Dean's tongue twist out quiet moans from Sam, whose head is tilted back for deeper access. Mouths sealed together, longing is infused into the sensitive nerve endings all over Sam's body. His cock twitches against the hand around it; Dean doesn't stroke or flick his wrist. He maintains a hold over Sam simply to feel Sam's cock fatten and respond. A push forward of Sam's hips only tightens the grip.

Lush lips trail down from Sam's mouth to his throat. Fingers follow. Pressure points are teased with both tongue and fingertips. Breath hitching, Sam tries pulling his hips back and pushing them forward. A bite down on his neck, like the one from this morning, is both his reward and his punishment. The bite is sweet and the mark is deep. Dean traces over it with his tongue.

Into the curve of Sam's throat, a command is rumbled.

"Over me."

His defenses unraveled, Sam obeys. He shucks the blanket and whimpers as the hand over his cock withdraws. The switch in position is quick. Dean lays on his back, knee propped up over the arm of the couch, and Sam moves to be on top of him, his mouth at Dean's hips and his hips at Dean's mouth.

Limited space does nothing to hinder Dean. With rough, greedy hands, he gropes and squeezes Sam's ass, spreading him open, digging his fingertips into the meat of Sam's hips. Warm breaths can be felt against Sam's balls and the underside of his cock. He shudders at the sensation, which works to heighten his sensitivity. The muscles in his lower stomach tighten.

"Sam." Kisses are etched into his inner thighs.

"Dean?"

"Suck me off."

Sam does not ask how. He already knows.

At the same time, they swallow each other up.

Slurping, sucking, soaking up the taste of Dean, Sam moans. He shuts his eyes and lowers his own hips, the tip of himself hitting the back of Dean's throat without gagging. Rocking back and forth, the sensations are endless. Sam hollows out his cheeks. Dean responds in kind. Sam opens his mouth and relaxes his throat; Dean follows suit. Sam licks the crown and applies pressure to the bloated head, adding more spit; the same is done to his cock simultaneously.

Sam falters when he feels the press of a finger against his hole. His thighs tremble from the sensation, the finger circling and rubbing. He's still a little open from this morning, when Dean was fucking into him as they lay on their sides, Sam holding onto the headboard. This is different. This is slow and lazy and purposefully drawn out.

Popping off, Dean laps at the tip of Sam's cock hanging above his mouth, licking all the way down and under, over the swell of Sam's balls and up to where his cock was this morning.

Dean's hips push up. Sam gags.

"Choke on it," is demanded, with another, firmer push. "I wanna hear it."

Those words imprint into Sam's mind. He breathes in deep and relaxes his jaw, focusing on the smattering of freckles across Dean's thighs. They are paler than the ones on his nose and shoulders, but just as alluring. Sam gets to work. Spit is added, sloppy and thick, coating Dean's cock completely. The entire length of it drives into Sam's throat, tapping the back, swelling from the position. Sam forces his mouth down, coughing and sputtering audibly.

Efforts are rewarded by the push of Dean's tongue. Sam's hips stutter. He coughs over Dean's cock, tears in his eyes, his face flushed. The widest, broadest part of Dean's tongue drives in, but immediately withdraws. Sam whimpers, popping off to take a breath. Dean thrusts his hips up, his cock bobbing against Sam's mouth. The smack of it against Sam's lips causes them both to shiver. Sam takes the head into his mouth and suckles, not moving down until Dean's mouth rests against where his tongue just was.

Spit makes everything slick. Dean holds Sam open, prying his legs apart, holding his ass up.

Once more, Dean slips his tongue in. This time, he delves further in, tongue flicking and curling. Sam's cock responds to every slurp, each twist and wind and lick. Fingertips stay at the rim, teasing the nerves there. Sam cries out as Dean plunges his tongue all the way in, as far as he can. Wide circles fuck Sam open again, sloppy and slick. Straddling Dean's face, Sam works his hips down, moaning over Dean's cock, his own cock twitching. The feel of his thighs framing Dean's face makes him desperate and loud. He blows Dean as filthy and wet as Dean tongue fucks him.

Dean lifts his hips up towards Sam's mouth, giving him easier access, thrusting in time to the movements of his tongue. The rhythm of it is a synchronous rush. Sam cries out when he is fucked faster, stinging slaps to his ass added, heightening the feel of everything. He humps back against Dean's tongue, twisting and desperate, tears joining the spit on Dean's cock. It feels so good. It all feels so good.

Sam's ass clenches around Dean's tongue, the delicate muscles there fluttering and spasming. His balls draw up and his cock gives a sudden twitch. Close. Close.

A nub of nerves is grazed. Sam chokes while moaning.

Merciless, Dean increases the intensity of his work. He keeps Sam open with firm, strong hands, and ramps up every action, every sensation. His cock also gives a twitch from the base to the tip. He pulls out his tongue completely, for just one second, then slides back in with renewed ferocity. The nub is pounded against with the blunt tip of his tongue. Sam blooms open for him, rosy muscles glistening with spit.

Flickering his tongue over the bundle of nerves, Dean pushes his face forward, gripping onto Sam's ass.

With his mouth stuffed full of Dean's cock, Sam comes, moaning, crying, and gagging. Untouched, his cock spurts a load all over his belly and Dean's chest. He pops off at the last second and shouts.

"Oh! Oh, fuck! Dean!" Sitting up, he pushes his hips down, corkscrewing down, a second orgasm following. Dean groans. His tongue doesn't stop moving. It wiggles and twists and twitches and one, two, three, pounds against the nub at just the right angle.

"Fuck, fuck, yes! Yes, oh fuck," Sam gasps, his eyes rolling back. This time, Dean strokes him through his orgasm, milking him until every last drop of come is wrung out and Sam is wheezing.

"I'm gonna come." Dean sits up, moving his hand from Sam's cock to his own. "Fuck, Sam. Shit."

Sam is coherent enough to be generous.

He slips onto the floor and kneels between the vee of Dean's legs, opening his mouth. Dean pumps his cock, slapping the tip of it against Sam's tongue. "Gonna," Dean breathes, looking down and meeting Sam's eyes, biting down on his bottom lip. "Sam, I... I'm... Fuck..."

With his free hand, Dean reaches down and cups Sam's cheek as he did before. With his other hand, he strokes himself through his orgasm, ropes of come striping Sam's face. Thick, long strings of it lay across the bridge of Sam's nose, over his tongue, and on the dimples at the edges of his mouth. With Sam marked up, Dean pushes his cock into Sam's mouth one more time, shuddering when Sam suckles him dry.

Both of them take a few minutes to catch their breath.

Sam flops down on the living room floor, wiping his face with his blanket, which will now have to be washed. His ass feels sloppy, too, but that is less of a concern than getting the come off his face before it dries and he never lets Dean do that again.

For longer than anyone wants to admit, the living room is filled with the sounds of them wheezing and panting. To be fair, Sam points out in a series of grunts, he did come twice.

Eventually, Sam is helped back up on the couch. They become a mess of tangled up limbs.

Dean's hand snakes its way down towards Sam's ass again, playing the theme song to Jaws also again. He pushes two fingers into Sam, deep as they can go, and presses kisses into Sam's hair as they lay chest to chest. Sam whines at the sensation, overstimulated, but he doesn't swat Dean away. He closes his eyes and lets Dean play with his ass. Dean scissors his fingers for a minute, then pushes in a third.

"Stop it," Sam grumbles, bumping his chin on Dean's chest. "Nothing's gonna happen."

"You'd come back to me, right?"

"Huh?"

Three thick fingers shove all the way in, causing Sam to yip. Dean presses them together from head to toe, his free hand digging into Sam's back. Pathetically, Sam's cock gives attempts to harden.

The question is repeated into the line of Sam's throat. "You'd come back?"

"Get your hand out of my ass."

"Answer me."

"Dean!"

"Sam." Dean pulls on Sam's hair. Their eyes meet. "You would, right?"

"I would," is breathed back, "but I'm not going anywhere to begin with, Dean."

In half an hour, Sam is going to take a hot shower with Dean. He's going to make Dean wash his hair for pulling this stunt with his ass. And after that, Sam is going to bug Dean about what he's making for the guys tonight and plead with him to have everything wrapped up by ten at the latest. Another Shark Week will have come and gone and their lives can return to normal.

Huh.

This is normal. Laying on top of Dean, three of Dean's fingers in his ass after they've just had sex like teenagers in the living room.

The whole point of today was to be as lazy as possible. But, Sam supposes he can manage a little more effort. Tapping Dean's chin, Sam starts quietly. "Dun dun." A hint of a smile shows for a second. "Dun dun dun dun. Dun dun dun dun dun dun..." Before he can finish, Sam's neck is bitten once more.

This time, Sam struggles, laughing and flailing, victim to the greatest predator man has ever known.

**Author's Note:**

> phew! XD
> 
> i hope you all enjoy this! this is for wngFangel, whose shark week idea is the source of this. :D thank you!
> 
> oh boys. you're both jerks. XD 
> 
> i also just wanna make an ode to both of their self-esteem issues. oh boys. 
> 
> i'm still awake at 5 am, just posting porn, because you know... this is my life. leave me love to wake up to! <3
> 
> (the documentary here does exist and a shark named Nicole did make friends with a marine biologist. and a certain someone that you may know /cough/ did cry at the end of that documentary. ;w; )


End file.
